Brothers In Arms
by harpychick
Summary: The premise - Female Wardens are required to undergo an additional ritual as part of the Joining, and there are side effects of to the taint.  Moving into Awakening, what this means for Velenna & Sigrun.
1. Chapter 1

**This, this is the reason I've been so distracted. **

Can I just put the disclaimer on my profile? Property of Bioware. I may need to get that tattooed to my forehead, at this rate.

A warning - this story really is smut wrapped in a thin, thin layer of plot. It is, after all, a product of the Kink_Meme.

oOo

She is hungry. The Joining has only been finished an hour, the War Council met, plans laid, but the growl in her stomach is insisting that she pay attention. She is beginning to feel the slightest tug, a tingle in her flesh, an awareness of the tainted blood massed down the valley, calling to her. The new buzzing in her ears is starting to resolve itself into a very faint melody, trilling in her head.

An incredibly appetizing smell strikes her, pulling her head around with the need to locate the source. Alistair is approaching, bearing a steaming bowl of stew and bread. Her nostrils flare as she catches the subtle tang of his scent, his taint, beneath the smell of the food.

She barely manages not to snatch the bowl from him, her hands shaking. She is so _hungry_! She mumbles thanks through a mouthful of bread, appalled at her manners, but unable to stop. He watches, both amused and astonished at the sight of her choking down the chunks of meat in the stew. There are other things flashing across his face as well, as if he has no practice at hiding himself.

Finished, setting down the bowl, she stretches, her body not quite content, but no longer screaming at her. She licks her lips, chasing the last vestiges of broth, and the ex-Templar blushes.

Her eyes narrow at the change in his scent, the song in his blood that rises closer to the surface. His blush fades under her stare, his eyes darken. She lifts her hand to brush against his face, the pad of her thumb grazes over his lower lip. His breath is hot, his eyes a morass of confusion, a pulling want. She knows he can hear her song, because she can hear his.

There is a voice in her that is calling frantically, trying to get her attention, but she can't make out the words over the smell of him, the sound of him. _M__ate_

She is so hungry…

She is about to step closer, to claim him, when the music soars louder, the thrum of stronger blood pulls her in a different direction. He is singing to her, calling, cajoling, his music caressing. He beckons her north, though he is far distant, she is his. His song is beautiful and mesmerizing.

The tiny voice screams louder, but can't break her trance. Reason slips away, submerged beneath a desperately powerful instinct. _Come to us, come. We will ease your hunger, we will fill you_. The part of her that is the screaming little voice knows that we is the horde, beyond the tree line, the symphony of corruption undeniable. But she is _so_ hungry.

She turns, but before she can move toward the beguiling hive voice, Alistair catches her in an iron grip. "Duncan said not to let you go anywhere." His breath is hot on her skin, the cage of his arms tight. Maker, he smells so good…A throaty groan as her hips sway against his, she snarls in reply.

"He is calling to me, Alistair." This close, the Templar's song rises again, a staccato beat of pulse, nearly drowning out the distant call. "Please, I have to answer…"

His growl rumbles through her, skin shivering, a piercing heat lancing deep in her belly, the harsh yearning intensifies. "No." He pulls her bodily to him, the instinct of possession, an urge of submission swirling through her. His mouth grazes against the back of her neck, and she pushes her ass against him, feeling the swell of his arousal in response. Keeping one arm locked around her torso, his other begins to drift.

Between the hard heat of his cock pressed against her, and the light, slow sweep of his hand, she succumbs to the sensation, to the sound of him, the smell of him. His touch is not adept, but he too has surrendered to instinct, grinding against her, teeth nipping at her shoulder. The haze of touch and need nearly drowns the oh so distant call.

She feels them before she sees them, hears them before she feels them. Her blood is calling to them, her hunger and need a beacon they cannot ignore so close, even if they would choose to try. The other Wardens come, called to heel by the aria of her taint. She can taste their hunger on the air, mingling with the taste of the Warden behind her. Duncan is first into the encampment, followed quickly by Ranulf and Valan.

There are several faces that are completely unfamiliar, Wardens she has not yet met. The voice inside protests meeting them in this fashion, but she ignores it, the longing that throbs through her welcomes them, responding to their corrupted blood, to their compelling music. The virulent desire that courses through her is reflected in their heavy stares, drawn to her.

Duncan's hand on her shoulder, drawing down her sternum to the valley between her breasts. "This will keep the call of the Archdemon at bay, my dear." His touch is solid, heavier than Alistair's, more knowledgeable. The need in his eyes is no less overwhelming than the others, but he is managing to keep his wits better. His hand comes to rest briefly on Alistair's forearm, still wrapped tightly around her ribcage. "Would you prefer to be held, or bound?"

His question shocks her out of her haze. "What?"

He chuckles, fingers tracing the inner slope of her left breast, stoking the hunger. "You will try to respond to the call of the Archdemon, or you will try to reach the horde. The instinct is strong, and until you are bound completely to the Wardens, you won't be able to resist it." Alistair's warm hand brushes her lower belly, edging his fingertips into the waistband of her borrowed trousers, sitting low on her hips. She rocks back against him again, he is surprisingly harder than before.

"What do you mean, completely bound? I thought the Joining did that?" Her voice is breathy, even she can hear the lust in it, as the Templar slowly, torturously slowly glides his fingers across her hip, pushing the trousers down incrementally.

The surrounding Wardens are all removing armor, and the resurging flare of the song threatens to pull her back under. She struggles to keep control, to stay coherent, to hear Duncan's answer.

"Female recruits are rare. Very rare." Her eyes flick to Ranulf as he steps in front of her, to the Warden Commander's right. Duncan strokes a gentle hand over the tall blonde warrior's hair, then pushes down on his shoulder, guiding him to kneel before her. He stares up at her, entranced, captured by her euphony, by the scent of her through the thin fabric.

"One of the reasons for this is that the call of the Old Gods is very strong for a woman, once the Joining has been undertaken. In order to dim it, to allow her to deny it, she must be claimed by a 'horde'. We are your horde, and now we must make you ours." An edge of a growl, Duncan's hunger is beginning to show through, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, to taste her on the air. His eyes narrow, and he nudges Ranulf's head forward, so that his chin brushes her, the shock of contact making her gasp, making her arch forward, seeking more pressure. "We will make sure that it is not an unpleasant experience for you, as best we can. But it must be done."

She whimpers, caught between the heat of breath on now wet fabric at Ranulf's attention, the sharp, shifting jolts of pain and pleasure as Alistair works the soft skin of her neck and shoulders with his lips and teeth, the expert movements of Duncan's hand on her breast, and the palpable need consuming the air around them. Avid watchers, the Wardens have circled around them, awaiting a signal. She feels the wanton, glorying under their eyes, knowing they were yearning for her, caught in the spell of her blood.

She squirms in Alistair's arms, tilting her head to catch his attention. "What say you, Alistair?" Her tongue darts out to taste the corner of his mouth. "Do you want to hold me while they fuck me, or would you like to see me tied up and helpless?" The animal in her is speaking, crying out to him, and he responds to it, clenching her body tightly back into him as his fingers finish their journey across her flesh, sliding against her wetness.

"I will hold you." His blush is barely noticeable, as his inner gentleman tries one last time to surface, and falls to the Warden instinct, driven by the song of shared taint, their blood singing in harmony.

She smiles at him, twists just enough to catch his mouth, and kisses him. "Hold tight, then. I hear the call Duncan speaks of, and I will answer if I can." She can feel the last vestiges of herself slipping into the haunting refrain. "Keep me safe, Alistair."

Before he can respond, she goes under, the sting of her tunic being torn from her body, the soft slide of her trousers being pulled down and away barely register, the melody swirling through her head, inside her ears, draws her down, and she _needs _to answer. She struggles against the hold on her, but Alistair is strong, and his instinct demands he own her. All she knows in this moment is the beautiful voice that sings to her, promises of repletion and contentment, if only she will answer!

"Please, please, let me go…" She will beg if it will free her, the need to respond, to follow him north is so strong, she will deny him nothing.

Her thighs are pulled apart, one held by Duncan, one by an un-named Warden. Ranulf slides his tongue firmly against her clit, trying to drown out the far away music with the pleasure snaking up from between her legs. She feels it, hips bucking forward, rocking between the Templar's cock and the Warden's tongue, and Maker, there are hands on her, touching everywhere, hot and needy, as hungry as she.

Her body spasms, coming in jerks of liquid music, Alistair's song loudest against her flesh as he keeps her upright, keeps her from running. He is louder, for a moment, than even the Archdemon, and her plea is not for freedom, not now. "Please Alistair. I'm so hungry…"

He looks uncertainly at her, but Valan steps forward, rests his hand on Alistair's shoulder, dissolving the modesty of humanity. Closer than a brotherhood, are the Wardens, linked in ways normal humans can never be. The dark eyed rogue strips the Templar bare, then grabs her hips to tilt them. Kneeling, Valan grabs the base of Alistair's swollen cock, guiding the younger Warden until his head pushes just into her entrance. With a quick stroke down Alistair's inner thigh, and a wet kiss branding the under curve of her ass, he stands, murmuring instructions on how to proceed.

The Warden moves slowly, stretching her, filling her. The jagged edges of the yearning begin to smooth, become less biting the further into her he pushes. Lips and teeth toy with her nipples, hands caress her heated skin. A tongue lapping at the fluid dripping from her slit, fingers exploring the silky motion of Alistair within her. She comes again, tiny shivers and clenching cunt, and it drives the Templar into hard movements, hips snapping ferociously, the wet slap of skin on skin twining with the symphony of their blood, their want. The feral need in Alistair matches the craving in her, and his cock, hot and heavy and filling her so completely, helps to block out the calling voices, replacing them with the singing blood and lust of the Wardens surrounding her, touching her, taking her.

Slickened fingers slide between her cheeks, hooking into the puckered ring of muscle even as Alistair pounds into her, the sensation of dual penetration pushes her over the edge again, dragging him with her, gasping breath and crescendo.

Reprieve is brief, the hunger rising rapidly again, only to be met by Duncan, his tongue teasing in her mouth, his flesh ramming into her body, all pretense of gentleness gone. The rhapsody of tainted blood submerges even his civilized façade, lost in the mist of an urge that is barely human. After Duncan, Valan plunges into her, his nimble hands reaching behind her to stroke Alistair back to readiness.

One by one, the Wardens come into her, though their hands and mouths never leave her skin, Alistair never lets up his grasp around her torso. At some point, guided by Tamhas's urging, slickened by her come, Ranulf's saliva and the other Wardens' seed, the former Templar eases his cock into her too tight ass, his slow thrusting a counterpoint to Tamhas's movements. Neither man is small, and she is _finally_ full, the Wardens can feel each other through the thin flesh separating them, but modesty is lost to them, there is no wrong in doing what needs to be done, and even the bashful Alistair, chantry raised, feels no shame or hesitation. They are Wardens, and it would be shameful to let their Sister suffer, to not feed her hunger.

Sometime after Tamhas spends himself, while Alistair is still slowly, slowly fucking her slick ass, Errol, his name whispered in her ear just as he slides into her cunt, is thrust in to the hilt, King Cailan's cheerful voice is hollering for Duncan.

As one, the Wardens turn, snarling lips and threatening eyes, move protectively around her, blocking the King's access to her. Even Alistair growls, the same innocent chantry boy who had lead her into the Wilds, his teeth locked into her bent neck, nearly drawing blood, challenges Cailen with the fierce burn in his eyes. Outsider. Intruder. Not kin. Not Warden.

Yet she stretches against their hands, drawing his eyes to her, his mouth agape, his face confused, horrified, longing. His silence heralds the resurgence of the distant music, no longer hidden beneath the Wardens' own. She is desperate, and he may be her way out. Her seductive movement is her own undoing, the sway of her hips brings a groan from Alistair, a hot rumble against her throat, and he impales her deeper, shoving her harder onto Errol. The waves of pleasure bear her under, away from the voice, away from the King, back into the surging opus of the Wardens synchronized thrusts.

The King is allowed to watch, at a cautious nod from Duncan, a hoarse admonition to not interfere, no matter what. Do not come close. Do not touch.

Her body is wet, sweat and come, both hers and theirs, glistening in the firelight of the Wardens' camp. Nothing in her eyes is human as her body begins to quake, spiraling, dissolving in the movement, the need, the cresting hunger. Her mewling grows louder, the pulsing throb of heated flesh as pinpricks of light spark across her vision.

The savage rip of skin and meat as Duncan bites into her breast, tears out a chunk of flesh, bleeding freely. She is coming, hard, as each Warden steps forward, bending around Errol to brush lips to wound, to lap at her singing blood, dripping down her writhing body. They all cluster around her, hands grip her jaw, each kisses her, laced with her own taint and his, a final claim. Each kiss is a brand, until only Alistair remains. A last cruel thrust, deep inside her, and his teeth sink into her shoulder, muffling his roar of release.

Twisting, she licks her blood from his mouth, bites his lip until she can taste his song, mingled with her own. She can taste them all, and they are all hers. A satisfied smirk curls her lips as she collapses against the ex-Templar's chest, the gentle grasp of the Wardens' hands bearing them to the ground.

The aching melody still cajoles, but she finds she can ignore it, the music of her own horde thrilling through her. They are the louder now, theirs the blood that calls to her. She is entwined in Alistair's embrace, his hands stroking, no longer imprisoning. A cloak is draped over them, damp cloth run lightly over skin, cleaning, bodies cuddle up to them. Ranulf runs his fingers through Alistair's short hair, even as the Templar reaches to pull one of the others close. "Danial," whispers the slender black haired elf, eyes tired and content as he curls close, arm draped over her back.

Duncan stands over them, in a tangle of bodies. The Warden Commander smiles, his voice deep and rough with affection. "Welcome, Sister." He shrugs into his robes and armor, with a tired sigh, turns to lead the awestruck King away.

"Duncan, are you certain you can't make me an honorary Warden?" The responding chuckle drained of energy and humor, Duncan ushers Cailen away from the Wardens, away from her, replete and enfolded in the warmth of her Brothers.


	2. Chapter 2

The road to Lothering is wet, twisting mud track through overhanging trees, shadows of malice stalking them through the quiet. The Wardens walk in silence, following the swaying hips of the Witch as she leads them, days of endless motion that seems to get them nowhere. Morrigan has assured her they are close now, they will find the Imperial Highway before darkness falls again.

Alistair paces her, close enough to reach out and graze his shoulder, should she choose. The weight of his sorrow tugs at her, but the trill of his blood so close is a comfort. It is quieter now than before, the music missing so many melodies. He lacks the booming depth of Duncan, the taste and smell of matured taint, the smooth tones of Ranulf, Errol's twirling croon. His song may not be so robust, without the other Wardens, but it is pervasive none the less. Bound, he is hers, his taste on her tongue, his scent in her nose.

Her fingers glance lightly against his bicep, more pressure than sensation, and his tiny, sad smile fractures something inside her. His rounded shoulders and downcast eyes reflect her own lament, her fury and grief shredding her from the inside. She stumbles, struggling to keep her feet, to keep walking, as she is struck again by their loss.

Hands on her shoulders, keeping her upright. Again. Without him, she would fall, sprawling into the thick mud, but he enfolds her in his warmth, his song a comforting caress. They simply stand, his blood bolstering her, her strength seeping into him, muted sobs and aching hearts. His body shudders with the force of his desolation, until she pushes her fingers into his hair, presses her lips to his skin, just beneath his ear.

He rubs his face against hers, breathing her in even as his tears leaves warm, damp smudges on her jaw. Her scent steadies him, her strength and daring his shelter. She is his Alpha, and his every sense tells him she will guide him, protect him, dominate him. The dark undertones of her chime through him, reassuring.

"Do you want to talk about what happened? About Duncan?" A delicate touch of her mouth beneath his eye, kissing away his tears, tasting his grief. It is hard for him to focus, to see her as human, to see himself as human, to _be_ human, when the Warden instinct rides him so fiercely. Savagely, he shoves it down, and lets the words spill out, lets himself fall into her purely human compassion.

She is steadfast and fierce, a leader born, and he understands why Duncan chose her. She was to have been his Second, groomed to be Commander when the Calling stole him away, to die, or be submerged completely into the song of the taint. The devout loyalty of the Ferelden Wardens had been hers, and she theirs. Now there is only him.

Her hands stroke his neck and scalp, the taint in her touch welcoming him, pulling him close and wrapping him tight, adrift in her song. He holds her close, one arm around her waist, the other fisted in her hair as he rubs his face against her bare neck and shoulders, his tears wash away the road dust, letting her tears fall on his skin, scorching and cleansing.

When they begin to walk again, hurrying to catch the Witch who either didn't bother to wait, or didn't want to intrude, he falls into place easily, to her right, a half step behind her. He is not a leader, but he is a damn good warrior, and he is hers to command.

oOo

The song is haunting, slow chords twisting through her, the thrumming bass matches the heave of her breath. Need courses through her, to bask in the music, to float in it until she is nothing but sound, nothing but resonance in the void. Her heart aches, her body tense and coiled, waiting only to wake, only to escape. His voice is loud, keening for her, demanding, begging.

_Come home _

She wakes gasping for air, the flicker of the fire painting her vision red and black, the shadows of the camp bear down on her. Remnants of melody, fragments of dream flit through her mind. The pulling cry of the Archdemon claws at her, need twisting and cramping her limbs. If she could move, she would be up and running, into the ocean of blackness, to find him, to kneel before him, to be owned by him.

"Bad dream?" He picks at a seam of his bedding, gaze focused on a loose thread. Dregs of his own nightmare are heavy in his eyes, sharp in the raw scraping of his voice.

She shudders as she nods, throat too thick to speak.

"The dreams are a side effect of the Joining. We can hear them." Rubbing his face, he glances at her.

"Yes." Her voice is hoarse, barely audible.

He laughs, low and humorless. "Yes, I suppose you do know that." He eyes her warily when she pats her own bedroll, gesturing him to join her. An arched brow and a firm slap to the blanket brings him scrambling to obey, blushing furiously. He sits beside her, a careful distance between them that puzzles her.

"Alistair, what is this?" She leans closer to him, pointing as he pulls back slightly. "What have I done?"

"What? No, nothing!" He shakes his head, frowning. "You haven't done anything wrong. I haven't done anything wrong. It's just…I was raised mostly by the Chantry, with an eye on being a Templar." His sigh is laced with confusion and doubt. "I didn't even know there was such a ritual as…that, until it was happening." A shrug. "And by then, I was so caught up in the song, I couldn't have stopped if I'd wanted to."

"Oh." He looks so wretched, she reaches out to touch, gentle but persistent when he flinches away. She keeps her hand on his shoulder, kneading gently, trying not to startle him, make him any more uncomfortable than he is.

His blush is back, deep red. "It was my first time…"

"Oh!" A vivid flash of memory sweeps through her, setting her pulse to racing as she relives the feel of the ex-Templar pushing into her. "I…would not have guessed that."

Pleased embarrassment flooded his face, actually paling his blush a bit. "It is hard to reconcile my upbringing with some of the changes becoming a Warden has brought on. The increase in appetites. Especially _that_ appetite."

"Alistair, I need to know more about that ritual." She can smell the uncertainty on him, but she can smell the lust too. He is fighting to suppress it, struggling against the need brought on by his tainted blood. "Was it a once only thing, or does it need to be redone? I can hear the Archdemon much clearer now than I could even yesterday. He gets clearer and more tempting day by day." She grips his shoulder, agitated. "Can we redo it, or am I lost? How many are needed? Can we make it work if it is just us?"

"I don't really know much. I mean, you were there. I know exactly as much as that." He squirms in his discomfort, and she is frightened. Scared that he won't be able to help her, that his Chantry bred ideals will keep him from giving in to his instincts, her pheromones. Without his fellow Wardens, she worries that he may not be able to overcome his training enough to save her from herself.

He shifts his body, leaning slightly, away from her touch. His withdrawal leaves her cold, the hunger gnawing at her bones, the swelling symphony beckoning. She clenches her jaw against a whine, twitching. His pull is barely strong enough to let her sit in place, now that she can't touch him.

"What does your instinct tell you to do?"

"Even now, I want you." Guilt and desire war across his face. "Our Brothers lie slaughtered not a week gone, not even buried," he hisses, "and all I can think of right now is how it felt to move inside you, how it felt to feel you come on me." He is carefully keeping his hands to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. She wants them to be on her, quelling the strengthening music, helping her deny the echoing cry, harder to block out now. "I'm not sure if that is instinct, or lechery."

Her laughter is hollow, despairing. She tried to comfort him, she knows she failed, but she can't bring herself to care. The call is too distracting, bolstered by the dreams, and the support beneath her resolve is crumbling.

He is not so far gone in his self loathing and recriminations that he doesn't sense the change in her. One moment she is human, composed and questioning, compassionate and warm, even in the face of his breakdown, the next she is music and movement, the hunger of the taint her only drive. Suddenly he can feel the surge of her pulse across the space between them, her heartbeat speeding as she looks at him slyly.

When she moves to her knees, he follows, wary and coiled, mimicking her motion. When she bolts to her feet, he is on her, knocking her into the dirt with the weight of his body. Forgotten is his guilt, his uncertainty, his grief. There is only her, heat and sound, pulse and scent. Her struggle beneath him is frantic and entirely ineffectual. She is strong, but he is stronger, even without armor, the solid mass of him is more than she can shift.

"No." He whispers it in her ear, propped up on his elbows, before trailing his mouth down her neck. "I won't let you go." He has been fighting this for almost a week, since nearly his whole world fell apart. She is all he has left, and he feels dirty and perverted, with a constant urge to throw her down and fuck her senseless.

Her hips rock against him, seeking. "Then Maker's sake, Alistair," she begs, "help me!" Nails bite into his shoulders, tearing through the fabric of his shirt. "I can hear him, almost as strong as before." She is fighting to get free, her body at odds with her words. Pining her with his body is easy enough, grinding against her, but their clothes make things difficult, and she will run if he gives her the chance.

There are flashes of humanity in her eyes, but mostly they are dark with want, the Archdemon's song loud in her ears, she has gone too long without for Alistair's melody to compete.

A chill touch on his shoulder makes him pause, brings him back to himself enough to remember the others in camp. One of whom is…touching him. Too close to her. If it were male, he would attack. _MINE!_

"Be calm, Alistair. Be still." The voice is soothing, aware she is speaking to more beast than man, the thin veneer of his civilized upbringing shattered by his prey's attempt to flee, his mate's feral need. A flare of magic flows around the Wardens, and Morrigan crouches next to him, her hand now firmly on his back. "I've cast a paralysis spell on her, we've a few moments."

He cocks his head, regarding the raven Witch quizzically. Her scent is different, if he breathes her in deep enough, he can taste the taint in her, a taint she didn't have before. She has no song, but her smell…Maker, she smells like kin. She smells like Warden.

"I am aware of what it means to be a Warden. 'Tis quite evident, in fact, that I am more knowledgeable than the pair of you." The Witch works quickly, while she has them both calm, the Warden frozen in her spell, the Templar caught in her scent and gaze, yellow eyes captivating as she winds silken strands of web around the Warden's wrists. "I have sent Sten and Leliana to find me a goodly supply of elf root, which was no easy task, considering the commotion the two of you have caused."

"Morrigan." Her voice is slurred, weakened by the Witch's power. "I'm going to kill you for this."

Morrigan's cruel laugh is a surprisingly pleasant chime in Alistair's ears. "I hardly think so, Warden. 'Tis a certain wonder you've survived thus far, and not run off to join the horde. I suppose I should count myself lucky one of you actually is male, or this would be even more difficult." She smells of musk and night, disdain and desire. The faintest scent of wolf, and a growing scent of Warden. She doesn't smell female, she simply smells of taint.

The Witch guides him, pulling him away from the Warden, dulling the roar of his flesh, of his blood. "Why can't you just keep us under this spell, Morrigan?" Humanity is resurfacing, followed swiftly by shame and guilt. He tried to…he'd nearly…Oh, Maker!

"'Tis a very temporary measure, Alistair. You will find it wears off in a few moments, and then we are no closer to solving the problem." She is kneeling behind him, stroking his flanks languidly. His flesh shivers under her ministrations, and as her fingers caress across his abdomen, removing his shirt, he feels himself responding. "You may as well get used to this, and to me, now. With only one, the effects will be short lived, but I can add perhaps a day or two with my involvement."

Her lips are warm on the shell of his ear, her fingertips dancing playfully across his chest. "I've a wish you were more dominant, my handsome fool." She tastes the sweat on his shoulder, slowly dragging her mouth across his skin. "But you will serve."

He groans and lets his head fall back when her sneaky fingers slide into his trousers to wrap around his cock, hard already, but harder still as she strokes him, her voice cunning and depraved in his ear, telling him his perversions are natural.

His fellow Warden lies trussed before him, her eyes wide as Morrigan brings him firmly to attention. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she can taste the Witch as well, the kinship. For a moment, she watches in oh so human fascination as the Witch's hands and mouth send wracking sobs of pleasure through the Templar. The pulsing jolt in her cunt has nothing to do with the taint, the music, the blood, but only the dichotic beauty of passion playing out before her.

"Can you smell her? Her need?" The voice in his ear is pitched lower, and riding the edge of oblivion, he _knows _she is the Witch he despises, but all he can hear, taste, feel is family. He hears Warden in her voice, smells it on her breath. A warm honey glow of power, and Morrigan is gone, the voice slithering against his skin far more familiar. The touch on his body is warmer, stronger, vaguely reminiscent of Valan, the only other Warden to touch him like this. He can't put a name or a face to the scent, but it is kin.

It isn't quite right, there is no music in him. Alistair is left with a grinding feeling of dissatisfaction, but reason is lost, and he lets the Warden behind him ease him forward, crouching over the woman whose blood _is _singing to him, drawing him in.

She watches them writhe, the Witch blurring in and out of focus, her rapidly changing scent a tempting confusion. Images raised from the Warden's memory play out over her face, as she becomes more solidly Warden. She pushes the Templar to his hands and knees, gentle but firm as she moves his pliant body to rest between the bound Warden's thighs.

"She is yours, Alistair."

The fever burning through the ex-Templar is easy to read. In the moment, he is not Templar, nor man. The hunger in his eyes bores into her, and his music flares, sharp and hot, the beating drum of his pulse defines him movement. The submissive posture falls away, as he takes her for his due. His growl against her throat makes her spasm, a flood of heat and wet.

"Please…" She is panting, begging, and he _finally_ responds, ramming his cock into her with all his considerable strength. Her cry is pain laced with want, she isn't ready, but he doesn't care.

The wicked whispers continue, "Yours to do with as you please. She cannot deny you. She does not wish to." The arc of her body and the whine in her breath tells him the truth of that. "Be what you are, Warden." She lifts, meeting his thrusts, and he lets go of himself, drowning in her. Slow and strong, each flex of his hips brings a cry spilling from her, desperate and needy. His teeth worry at her mouth, his lips paint fire across her jaw. Each shove drives the crystalline notes of him deeper into her soul, filling her empty spaces, feeding the hunger that ravages her.

The man in him is gone, but the beast remembers, remembers the tilt of hips that brings _that_ sound from her, remembers the nip of teeth that throws her head back, crying out. Remembers the liquid swivel that brushes just…there, and causes her to buck beneath him. His fingers dip into her wetness, and when she clenches frantically around him, his beast remembers the taste of her, tearing into her flesh to swallow her symphony.

He shares it with her, mouth locked to hers as he fractures, his world narrowed to the taste of her mouth, her blood, her music, to the hard pulse of his flesh in hers, the softness of her body beneath him, to nothing at all.

The soft stroke of her hands on his back and shoulders calls him back to his senses. Ragged breaths calm, the heat of flesh cools. Her ankles still locked around his back, cradling him between her thighs. She peppers his neck and chin with whisper light kisses, telling him that it is all right, that he is home, that she will take care of him.

A subtle cough drags their attention to the Witch, seated cross-legged on the far side of the fire. She watches them with hard eyes, lips twisted in a sneer. "Perhaps you'll not leave it so long, next time?"

He buries his face in the Warden's shoulder, hyper aware of their near naked state. The Warden herself meets the Witch's gaze, surprised to see her face soften slightly with pity.

"Go, the pair of you. There is a stream just beyond that copse, I've spelled it for warmth. It should last another hour, at most." Rolling her eyes, the Witch rises. "You've only to tell him, Warden. He follows orders quite well."


	3. Chapter 3

He hasn't really met her eyes for weeks. When he speaks to her, his gaze focuses on the movement of her lips, the motion of her hands, a cocked shoulder, anything not to look her in the eyes. He takes watch from her with a brush of skin on skin, unable to deny their need to touch. It doesn't take them long to work out that when the music begins to rise behind her eyes, she needs him, and she can't afford for him to be a gentleman. He doesn't turn from her when she slips silent into his tent, doesn't flinch from the tide of instinct that sweeps them under, doesn't fight the urge to bite and scratch, to possess and dominate, when her body throbs and pulses around him, stripping away his humanity. He doesn't fight the urge to taste her blood roll over his tongue, to let it mingle with the taste of her mouth, her kiss searing into his soul.

He worships her, his leader. She makes the choices he can't, bearing the guilt, the heartbreak of consequence. She tells him what to do, and how to do it, and since he's never needed to lead, never needed to choose for himself, he is strangely grateful, and strangely resentful, but she trusts him with her sanity.

When he is alone in his tent, he can barely stand himself. He doesn't want to be alone, but he can't convince himself that there is anything of love in what they do. In what he does to her. There is need, there is lust, but there has never been any thought of love, in the hallowed symphony of their mating. So the tender imaginings that flit across his thoughts are disconcerting, and he isn't sure what to do with the feelings they inspire.

Tell her about it? Just…No.

In Redcliffe, when he'd made his stumbling admission of paternity, she'd looked at him so sadly, touched his lips with a finger, and told him that it didn't matter who he had been, or who his father had been. He was a Warden, and if he didn't want to, he would never have to be a King. He was hers. Something in him lit fire at her words, and hasn't yet stopped burning.

The Antivian is…interesting. His blunt seductions and sleek smiles, lurid stares and lewd comments are an armor, as much as his molded leather. She is fascinated by the exterior, but it is what he is hiding that draws her like a moth to flame. He calls her beautiful, and she is torn between laughter and blushing, and ends up giggling. His nonchalant tales of his childhood break her heart, and his attempts at poetry make her cringe.

She cannot read the look in his eyes the next time she crawls into Alistair's tent, but he watches her intently. She meets his eyes boldly, and ducks behind the canvas flap, falling into the promised darkness.

The Bastard Prince surprises her tonight, his touch gentle, his eyes soft. The song that shimmers between them is quiet and sweet. He is passionate, but controlled, which has never happened before. Instead of pinning her down and fucking her, like the animals they always become, he kneels before her, and lifts her bodily to ride him. His hands hold her hips, caress instead of bruise, give instead of take. A surge of emotion flares through her as she meets his eyes, with only the slightest edge of savagery. She watches him, sees him bite his lip hard enough to bleed, as he fights off his nature, deflects hers.

So focused on his face, the affection, the (dare she want it?) love blazing in his eyes, she can't hear anything but him, the crashing, wildly rising undulation of the ballad they compose together. Her gasping cries are swallowed by the music, as he pushes her to peak, fingers insistent, body surging deep into her.

Resting her arms on his hard, broad shoulders, she leans her forehead against his, struggling to breath. His hands roam her back, soft and sure. He knows how to touch her, and he does, drawing shivers up and down her spine. She finds his mouth with hers, a slow touch of lips, tacky with his blood.

For the first time, she stays, curled around Alistair as she sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

"So, Alistair, my friend." The elf looks at him expectantly, face curious, eyes alight with laughter.

"What, Zevran?" Surly, he growls out his reply.

"No need to be cranky, Alistair. I am simply curious." A pout purses his lips, hiding a broader smile.

"I would ask what about, but I'm not sure I care." How long before the elf pushes past his excuses?

"Ah, no matter. I will simply ask the Warden. She seems to be far more fond of me than you are."

"Her allowing you to live, that was your clue?" It comes out grumpy, but he figures that's ok, because he is kind of grumpy.

"Well, that too, yes." Sly elf eyes, baiting him. He knows better. He won't give in.

"That too?" Ok…maybe he will.

"Quite a curious soul, is our dear Warden. We have grown quite close, telling stories by firelight." Alistair swallows the growl, but can't subdue the glare.

"Yeah, she listens well."

"If your wounds are any indication, that is not all she does well." He chokes on that, flushing.

Anger, resentment, possessiveness. "You wouldn't even begin to understand."

"Oh, I imagine if someone would take the time to explain, I would be able to keep up."

"It doesn't matter. You can't change it anyway. None of us can." He doesn't know if he wants to, but that doesn't change the hard truth of the situation. They were stuck. She was stuck.

"Do you want it to change?"

"Yes. No. Oh, Maker take it, I don't know!"

"Dear Alistair, what could possibly be so terrible in sharing a tent with such a beautiful creature? And with such passion? The sounds you make are…quite impressive."

"Like I said, you wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

She listens well, true. But he can't voice his discontent to her, anymore than he can voice his love. He shouldn't be so awkward, after all they've done, all they do, but the part of him that is human is still a fumbling dolt. He doesn't want to disappoint her, doesn't want to make her feel like she is forcing him into anything, ready or not. Hadn't he proved his readiness, the night of her Joining? Kind of hard to go back on something like that.

"It's different, now that there are only two of us. I was never supposed to try to do this alone."

"You are hardly alone. A camp full of people, this is not alone."

"I don't mean the treaties, or fighting the Blight. I know we're not alone in that. I mean, keeping the song out of her head, keeping her grounded." Things he should not say, not to an outsider, but there is no one left on the inside that he can talk to. And she trusts the assassin.

"Ah, the things Grey Wardens tell no one."

"Yes, the things the Grey Wardens tell no one."

"So when she goes to your tent, it is for this?"

"Yes."

"What did you mean, it was not for you to do alone?"

"There were more of us, before Ostagar. The same instinct that draws me to her, and her to me, that is a Warden thing, not just an us thing."

"So…all of you. Together." Clever elf.

"Not until she Joined, but yes. The music was so overpoweringly strong, and among the Wardens, there wasn't any…bad, no hesitation or guilt. It was just a part of what we are. When she called, we all answered."

"Why are you telling me this? I had expected you to brush off my questions."

"I guess I needed to talk about it, and you don't seem very judgmental."

"That I am not."

"Um…there is another reason, actually."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I think Morrigan knows this spell, that can make someone who isn't a Warden seem like one to us. Mostly."

"So Morrigan has participated? That is unexpected."

"You're telling me. Pretty sure she hates me. I don't much like her either, but she knew what to do when we didn't."

"What about Sten?"

"Urg. No. Only Morrigan."

"That seems a bit of a shame."

"No it doesn't. I don't want him touching me like that. That's just…creepy. Not that Morrigan wasn't creepy enough, but at least it was her magic that made it work."

"Are you asking me to join you?"

"I. Uh. Yes. I am."

"And what does the lovely Warden say to that?"

"Well, if you hadn't noticed, she's been spending a lot of time staring into the dark corners down here. I mean, the call is pretty bad for me, but I've got her to protect me from it. This close, I think the Archdemon has a better shot of getting her to answer if I'm all she has."

"Ah. I had been thinking she was merely being claustrophobic."

"Nope. And it will only get worse once we actually go into the Deep Roads. I'd like to know if this will work before then."

"Just to be clear. You're inviting me to bed with the two of you, while under a spell of Morrigan's, that will make me, what, feel, look like a Warden to you?"

"Smell, mostly. Some taste."

"Right. Smell and taste like a Warden to you both, to participate in a threesome, in an attempt to protect her from the Archdemon."

"Yes."

"Is there a downside?"

"Well, it can get a little…brutal. Oh, and if it works, you'll need to come with us, because this close, we may need to do it every night to keep her sane."

"And will I be allowed to touch you?"

"Once the spell is cast, if last time was any indication, I won't care, because as far as I'll be able to tell, you'll be one of us. It isn't perfect, I won't be able to hear you the way I did them, or her, but it works well enough. I let Morrigan touch me, after all."

"How can you be so matter-of-fact about this? You're not embarrassed, or upset?"

"Zevran, I don't have a choice. She trusts you, so I'll take that as truth. She likes you, more than anyone else in the group besides me. And you're male. I need help here. I love her. I'll do anything to keep her safe."

"Shall I go find Morrigan to cast the spell?"

"Thank you, Zevran."

"I would think you may call me Zev now, Alistair. If not now, then tomorrow."


	5. Chapter 5

The darkness presses down on her, the weight of the stone ceiling looming overhead, the closeness of the walls. The air is thick and warm, making it harder still to breath. She can barely taste Alistair, and he is only feet behind her. The clotting scent of corruption wafts through the rough hewn corridors, causing her to gag. She knows where to go, the maze of tunnels no obstacle to the persuasive tune beckoning her ever onward, willing her to lose all that makes her human.

oOo

He doesn't understand. The Archdemon has never drawn him like this before, with cunning trills of melody that make his body ache, draw his senses out, until the musky scent of his fellow Warden, the light sweat scent of the elven Crow, the sharp clean scent of the Witch, overpower him. The sulfur stench seems to fade into the background, ever present, but difficult to notice. When the Warden darts into the darkness, he follows, her path the same as his.

oOo

Zevran is panicky, his grip tight on the Witch's arm. "Morrigan, how good is your spell? Can you make them sense me completely as a Warden?"

"I…think 'tis possible. It shall require a great deal of power and focus, and a sample of blood from one of them. Best 'twere hers." She looks speculatively at the Wardens, both dazed and bound. "I've lyrium if I need it, and there can hardly be a protest from either of them."

"Good. Cast the spell. Now."

"How is it that she has entranced you so completely?" The Witch snorts. "She is my friend, surely, but you, you are going to such lengths. If you think on it, were they lost down here, were she lost down here, you would be free."

"She, while quite alluring, is not the Warden who has, as you say, so completely entranced me." His gaze sweeps the pair, lingering briefly on the former Templar. "Despite this…whatever it is, his innocence is quite taking." And his trust is astounding. "And I am not seeking freedom just yet. Their protection is necessary to my survival." A slight shift of shoulders, barely a shrug. "The Crows will pursue, the Wardens will defend. They have sworn it, as I am sworn to her."

The elf crouches, running slender fingers down Alistair's neck. Struggling, snarling, the warrior tries to break free of his bonds. His eyes are rabid, pools of dark burning against the smudged bruises of exhaustion. She looks no better, the press of stone, the heat of molten flows, the incessant, insistent call they both spoke of, when still they could speak, has driven the Wardens beyond breaking, and Zevran has accepted the charge Alistair laid on him, to save her, whatever it took.

"Perhaps break him free of it first, he can then assist you with helping her." Utterly sensible is the Witch, eyes amused, lips turned slightly up in a smile she can't quite hide. "I would offer to help, but I will be casting continuously to maintain this illusion."

He can tell when the spell takes effect by the way the Wardens both turn to him, eyes alight with song. At a particularly guttural utterance from the Witch, his consciousness explodes into music, the demanding thrumming of the Wardens pulling him in, drowning him. The part of him that remains detached is in awe at the splendor of their song, staggered by the strength of both, that they have been able to deny it for so long. What must it be to hear this, to dream this, to live it? Agony and ecstasy, torment and bliss.

She is the stronger by far, pulling her humanity around her like a cloak, hiding the truth of herself, long enough to whisper a broken plea, "Help him. Please, my friend, bring him back." The elf responds eagerly, stripping the blood crusted silverite from the Templar, his lips chill against the heated flesh he reveals. The creature that inhabits Alistair's body writhes in his bonds, stretching the silken web to nearly breaking. Morrigan has wrought well, however, and the binding holds, her spell holds, as Zevran strokes his palms down the broad, sweaty chest, dipping between the ridges of muscle of his stomach, traces the line of his hip with a pink pointed tongue.

Alistair's cry is caught somewhere between a whimper and a roar as Zevran slides his mouth over the Templar's shaft, relaxing his throat to take him in fully. A choking hum causes hips to thrust up hard, and the assassin is fighting for air, but he is finally understanding what they mean when they talk about the Warden taste, and there is nothing in his world but the taste of Alistair.

It is a long, slow climb back to sanity, clawing and grasping at the edges of pleasure to dull the pounding blood, the seductive song that swirls in his mind, but the rasp of teeth on his thick cock gives him finger holds, the flutter of Zev's throat, pliable and hot, gives him handholds. The skim of hands down his legs, and kneading into his muscles gives him an anchor to cling to, as he hauls himself out of the flow of melody.

It is still there, as it always is, easier to ignore when gasping for breath, thrusting himself heavily into the elf's mouth, the slick friction of his tongue, the sharp bite of his teeth, the choking whimpers that he can _feel_, as the elf's own song twines itself through his, wrapping them both in a secluded duet, chiming notes and baritone, a collage of sound and emotion pulsing through them. Growling, Alistair comes, as a flick of a clever Witch's dagger frees him, he buries his hands in Zev's long blonde hair, shuddering and thrusting until the strain is soft and sweet.

Firm but gentle, he grasps the elf's face, pulling him up his body until he can reach his mouth. Affection and gratitude spill from his lips, acceptance and wonder. Zevran tastes of salt and sweet wine, that Alistair might suspect came from Wynne's stock. The Templar's arms wrap tightly around the smaller man, basking in the sound and sense of him.

"How?"

"Our lovely Witch has aided us once more. You needed more than smell, my friend."

"Speaking of the Witch, may she suggest you turn your attention to our Fearless Leader?" She rolls her eyes, gesturing at the writhing woman. "I do not have limitless power."

"Ah, but of course." Still cocooned in Zevran's newfound song, he succumbs again to his senses, following her pull, tending to her need.

With the brood mother dead, the wickedly enchanting pull on Alistair is gone, and he grimaces in disgust, wholly himself. Turning away from the slumped, flaccid corpse, he shudders, glad he didn't know exactly _what_ had been calling to him, as the Archdemon croons to his fellow Warden.


	6. Chapter 6

"This place is…creepy. And haunted. But mostly creepy."

"Do not worry, Alistair. We will protect you from the spirits of the past."

"Zev, with all due affection…shove it."

"I am afraid you will have to shove it for me, my dear." A snicker, half hidden by his hand. "I find I cannot get the angle quite as perfect as you can."

"That's it!" The rugged Templar pounces, rolling with the elf to sprawl into the snow bank beside the trail. A flurry of white as Alistair grinds Zev's face into the cold powder, then a yelp as the assassin shoves a handful into the collar of Alistair's armor.

The Warden exchanges glances with the Witch, both grinning. Once Morrigan's mother died, she began to relax into the little family the Wardens have gathered. Still prickly, still fiercely independent, but the Witch finally seems to have found a sense of humor, even if most of it centers on tormenting Alistair.

She lets them play for awhile, scuffling and shouting, until the cold begins to bite through her winter cloak, and the Witch is shivering in her scant robes. A sharp whistle brings them to her, and she can't help but compare them to a pair of gamboling pups, devoted and playful, vicious and deadly.

Resolutely, they continue up the hill, Levi trailing in her wake, looking a little lost, chattering about the past, history and ancestors. She listens with half an ear, the other half hearing the scritch of bone against stone, until the visions of battles past slap her in the face. Morrigan murmurs in her ear of a thinned Veil, the press of the Fade, even as she sidles close to Alistair. The Templar smirks at her, a promise of teasing to come, but drapes his arm over her shoulder protectively. The little group brings weapons to bear, so when the first wave of skeletal warriors finds them, they are prepared.

The visions and the long rotted corpses lead them through the Keep, ever upward, until the demon that was Sophia seeks to barter freedom for information. Even Levi, desperate as he is, can't agree to go so far, and the demon is put down. A pulse of light from Alistair just as she falls, his hands firmly on the Witch's shoulders, Morrigan's face a mess of derision and gratitude.

The Warden stares at the pair of them, until Morrigan ducks her head, strangely bashful. "I would not come to such places of my own accord, my friend." Yellow eyes flick to Alistair, who is smiling indulgently. "While I've no doubt I _could_ deny the demons on my own, why waste strength that may be needed, when I've a savant who can assist?"

"Don't be such a bitch, Morrigan." He says it with a mock scowl, his eyes still playful.

The Warden can only sigh in exasperation, and gestures to the demon corpse. "See if there is anything on these creatures that we can use. Your armor is a disgrace."

oOo

She reads the notes, tapping her fingers against the vial of blackened blood. She knows so very little of the taint, all the lore lost with her Brothers at Ostagar. A tendril of sorrow slides under her skin, and she chokes back a sob.

She isn't sure, exactly, what the thick potion might do, but the research notes indicate it could help, and she desperately needs help. She glances at Alistair, who is rifling through the cabinets with Zev, the light banter between the two makes her smile. She needs to protect him, and hasn't done a very good job so far. Everything he has given her, his devotion, his support, his love, and all she has taken, and she feels like a failure. Still, they are alive, and that is what matters. She just has to keep them that way. If this works…if this helps in any way, then it is worth the risk.

The taste is beyond horrible, worse even than the Joining cup. She swallows anyway, the viscous mixture coating her throat, making her gag. She feels it hit her stomach like a chunk of jellied ice, the cold radiating out into her limbs, making her numb, making her limp. She falls heavily, saved from hitting the floor with her face only by the miracle of Alistair's arm around her.

As she fades into blackness, cold beats of an unfamiliar strain surge through her, almost covering Alistair's voice. "Maker, woman! When are you going to stop drinking strange blood?"

oOo

When she wakes, the world is different. The ever-present song of the Archdemon is faint, muted and strangely un-compelling. The last time she was so untempted by that call was just after her ritual, buried in a warm, welcoming embrace of all her Brethren. Alistair tries, and with the assistance of both Witch and Assassin, their stop-gap measure works, but the multitude of songs was so much more _filling_. With just Alistair, she is always left with a residual hunger, just sated enough to deny that demand.

She laughs, triumphant. Startled faces hover over her, confused but pleased. The Witch's relief is the most pronounced, as Alistair and Zevran simply beam and cuddle close, Morrigan actually hugs her. "Thank the Gods you live!" She whispers before pulling away.

The Warden lays basking in the arms of her lovers, feeling out the changes in her body, and in her blood. She feels strong, the solid beating of her heart is reassuring. The pulsing cry of Alistair beside her is pleasant, rather than urgent, she wants it, but no longer _needs_ it. She turns bright eyes on her party, grinning wildly. "We are free of it."

Why do their faces fall, suddenly blank expressions and dead eyes? Only Alistair is still smiling, and that seems pained relief as much as anything. It strikes, everything will change. Everything they have known of her has been tied up in the taint of her blood, her need to chase down the song. Every emotion they ascribe to her can be blamed on that pursuit. Has she ever bothered to _tell _Alistair that she loves him, as much as he loves her? She has relied on his ability to read her body as they moved together, to see in her eyes what she feels. Has she ever spoken to Zevran of affection, of desire outside of the spell of music? Has she told Morrigan how very much the Witch means to her, besides the magic she uses to keep her sane?

Now is not the time to start, but the hurt that suddenly swirls around her bids her _make_ time. "I have a choice." She touches each in turn, breathing out reassurance. Alistair responds to the scent of her blood, the thrum of her song, curling close, sighing in contentment. Morrigan and Zevran wait, wary, but seeing the Templar so, neither will bolt just yet. "I didn't have one before, I do now. I do not _want_ to let go of what we have."

She touches the elf, fingers toying with the tip of his ear. "Zev, you have given so much of yourself to this, to us, and ask so little in return." She gestures him closer, to whisper to him "I think that Alistair may love you, as much as he loved the Wardens we have lost." His smile is a little uncertain, but it is a start. "You are our brother, have stood in their stead. Thank you, my friend."

Morrigan is further away, but when she reaches out for her hand, the Witch gives it. "You have been my sister, family I didn't expect to find again, after…after Ostagar. I would be worse than dead without you, but I love you because you are so very you. Necessity has only smoothed the road, not crafted it."

She turns to face her Templar, her stalwart warrior, her savior, but stops short at the despair on his face.

"You may be free," a tired rumble, thick with sorrow, "but I am more captive than ever."


	7. Chapter 7

She senses him before they even make it into Denerim, his taint deep and dark. The distant pull of him reminds her of Duncan, chords so deep as to almost be darkspawn. Excitement barely contained, clasping Alistair's hand tightly, she dares to hope. They are not alone. It is a struggle to hear out Eamon's requests, to not track him down the moment they enter the city, but she is always open to him, and when following Anora's maid brings them closer, she wriggles in her armor disguise, while Zevran sniggers at her.

"Exuberant as a pup, my dear Warden. What is it you smell that has you so excited?" She shakes her head, grinning as she opens the door. The startled guard leaps up, only to be caught in the neck cracking embrace of his prisoner.

"Ah, you have arrived. Thank you for the distraction." The scruffy dark haired Warden tries to hobble forward, nearly falling.

She darts to catch him, raising his face to hers, greeting him with a kiss. "Brother," she breathes, smile wide against his lips. He glances at Alistair, sees nothing but joy and relief, and recognition. He hauls the Warden more firmly into his arms, delving into her mouth with his tongue, tasting her, learning her. Her hands caress his face, tracing scars, her body pressed to his. The lure of her is strong, more than he has ever felt, and even unsteady on his feet, he grips her hair, trying to get closer.

After a moment, she pulls away, with a small, rueful laugh. Alistair steps forward to greet him, not quite so thoroughly, but no less enthusiastically, tasting the taint on his tongue, on his breath, hearing the quick strains of song.

"Well met, Riordan." The ex-Templar, too, is rueful. There is no time for more, and they all three fight to curb instinct. "Later."

Later indeed.

oOo

"Warden, you really should go talk to Anora. She could be a great support."

"Yes, well. Could I please have five minutes to recover from being held captive by her father in Fort Drakon? It was a rather…unpleasant experience."

"If we could gain her support at the Landsmeet, this whole affair would be much easier."

"The whole affair of dethroning her, you mean?"

"Well, yes."

"Why would she support us in that?"

"You wouldn't tell her that is the goal, of course."

"Of course."

"So you'll speak to her?"

"Yeah. Alistair, could you come with me for a bit?"

"I need him to stay. We have quite a bit to go over."

"I need him to come with me. Warden business, very hush hush."

"Warden…"

"Arl?"

"Please do hurry. There is much to be done."

oOo

"I don't like him."

"Really? Cause I couldn't tell."

"Do you want to be king?"

"Um. No."

"Is it because of the Warden thing? The music, the blood? Would you want to be king if you didn't have to contend with that?"

"Honestly, that's a big part of it, but I haven't given much thought to _what if_, you know? I'm not a leader, you know that."

"You could be, you'd make a great king."

"But it's a moot point, my dear. I _do _have that to contend with, and the king can't be pulled apart like that. I don't _want_ to be pulled apart like that."

"So you're pretty sure you wouldn't want to be king if you were normal, and you definitely don't want to be king now?"

"Yep."

"Heh. It might be worth it to tell Eamon that you have to go away frequently to participate in secret Warden orgies."

"You are so adorable when you're pissy."

"I told you, I don't like him."

"Go talk to Anora. Tell her that her throne is safe. I don't want it."

"Ok. You go pretend you might actually do what Eamon tells you, while I undermine him at every turn. Maker, I love being a Warden."

"You know, he was the closest thing I had to a father, growing up."

"Then he should have acted like it."

"He isn't…"

"Alistair, he hasn't even apologized. Or acknowledged that he did wrong by you. I bet Teagan fixed your amulet. He, at least, seems to like _you_."

"Well, he definitely liked you."

"Huh. So he did. You think he'd want to become a Warden?"

"Ha ha."

"So, Riordan. You know him?"

"Yup. He was at my Joining."

*snerk* "Was it anything like mine?"

"Um…no."

"So…"

"So we should probably give him a proper welcome to Ferelden."

"…"

"What? Don't look at me like that!"

"Between him and Zev, I'm starting to wonder if you're only with me because of the taint."

"That may be a good question. We shall never know."

"…"

"It's not as if I've ever had sex that wasn't Warden induced."

"There's always Leliana."

"Riiiight."

"Or we could drop by the Pearl."

"No. Just…No."

"I love you, you know that, right?"

"There, was that so hard?"

"More than you know."

"I love you too."


	8. Chapter 8

Every time she thinks she might have a moment, she is called away, someone to talk to, someone else in need of persuading. The lingering glances and fleeting touches do little to aid her patience, and Riordan's frustration grows apace with her own. Even from across the city, she can feel him, hear him, and even if the draw is no longer what it once would have been, still she is captivated, she _wants_.

Eventually, he takes the choice from her. The knock on her chamber door, late at night, moments after she slides in the back door with her party, dusty and covered in slavers' blood, and he slips in, quiet and solicitous. He helps her remove rent and bloody gear, then they both tackle Alistair's buckles, the heavy silverite crashing to the floor as each piece is worked loose and discarded.

"Come, Zevran. 'Tis a thing of Wardens they must see to." Whisper quiet, the pair slip away, the Wardens so wrapped up in each other that they fail to notice.

"Why do you draw me so, Sister?" Riordan eases her into the steaming bath, gentle and controlled. "What makes you different?" His touch cleanses her, sloughing away the stench of battle, allowing her to tuck away the filthy, painful memories of the Alienage. His song washes over her, twining and twirling with her own, the slow, steady rhythm of comfort and belonging.

She purrs under his soothing hands, stretching in the hot water, ripples sloshing against the cool tub. He tugs at her mind, the strength and depth of his corruption impossible to ignore. The darkness in his eyes sucks her in, until she is drowning in his dreams, shivering and shuddering.

It starts slow, soft and quiet, the steady light pulse of his song rippling through her flesh. His hands rest easy on her shoulders as he smiles at her wide eyes, the growing throb of want twisting down her belly, deep into her cunt.

"How?" she moans, hips rising to the ghostly touch of harmony. Riordan chuckles darkly in her ear, kneading into her shoulders, even as he drives the wave of pleasure deeper, until she can barely breath around the swell of it.

"A trick we learn with age, to manipulate the music, much as the Archdemon does. He uses it to call to you, I would rather use it to make you come." The taste of him, all at once familiar and foreign, lays thick on her tongue, his taint a balm to her, his touch an agitator. The melody pushes deeper into her flesh, pressing and pulsing, until she does come. Her breath comes quick and shallow as he digs fingers into her neck, still working to ease tight muscles.

She turns her head, capturing his mouth. She can feel his taint skittering over her skin, seeking a way in, only to be blocked by the enhanced blood. He is music in her ears, muted to a background instead of an overwhelming swell of sound and emotion, only strong enough to notice, no need to heed. But the things he makes the music do to her flesh, skimming down her body, gliding up into her, twisting and tugging, forcing her hips to move, she cannot resist this.

The sudden rise of water splashing heralds Alistair joining her in the tub, his fascinated gaze on her face, his calloused hands chasing Riordan's music across her skin. Combined, the sensation overwhelms, and she follows it into oblivion.

Eventually, she shivers in the cooling wet, and scrubbed pink and glowing, the three of them fall into her bed, the snap-snarl of the male Wardens driving her into a frenzy. There is a key, she can feel it, to unlocking the power of the Mage's potion, that will allow her to control it. She just has to _find_ it.

The sheer devotion looking at her from both sides makes her want to be a part of it again. Since Soldier's Peak, the taming of instinct has left her feeling almost left out, and only the knowledge that Alistair, and now Riordan, need her, bound to her by their own blood, kept her from questioning the morality of the entire situation. She could no more deny them now, then any of the Wardens could deny her before, tied irrevocably by the taint of the Joining Chalice. Her inner voice is louder, now that the song doesn't sing so compellingly. It is more of a struggle to give in, to be a Warden, and she finds she almost regrets. Not quite, since the Archdemon has no sway for her now, but almost, for the need of her Wardens is less, and it hurts her.

With only Alistair to ping on her senses, it was easier to ignore the loss, to shove the feeling of something missing into the back corner of her mind. Her love for him, her Brother, her Templar, her family, was great enough that she was consumed by the almost human emotions of it. Now with Riordan, she feels the gap more keenly. She loves them, but the unthinking devotion goes only one way, sometimes the realization nibbles in the back of her mind that in so many ways, Alistair is no better than her slave, that Riordan would be the same, chained by the blood bolstered call of her song.

Touch brings her back from despairing musings. Her fellow Wardens kneel on either side of her as she lays flat on her back. The touch was a brief brush of Riordan's knee as they rise above her, locked in a deep kiss. She whimpers under her breath at the sight, the wiry dark rogue, still scruffy, so very sexy, running his hands down the hard body of the Templar, pale skin and golden glimmer from the firelight, their kiss a thing of teeth and snarls, a clash of dominance. The sharp, violent edges barely concealed, starting to tear through, rippling muscle as they each apply strength to their challenge.

They break apart, both growling, glaring. Alistair's hands come to rest on her body, a claim of ownership. Riordan snarls his reply, gripping the Templar's heavily corded forearm, his other hand hovering a breath from her skin. He shakes his dark head, fighting off instinct for bare seconds. "Use it, Sister. Use your song." Desperation, longing, _need_, his voice is hoarse. "We need you to bring us together, or we will tear each other apart."

She cries out, despairing, "I don't know how!"

He looks down at her, stunned. "It should be instinct! Why are you not consumed by this?" Flickers of anger, of envy. "What have you done, to change it so?"

"I did what I had to, to keep us sane, to keep us on track to end the Blight!" She chokes on her sudden fear. "Avernus said it would allow me to control it, but I can't! I can't figure out how." Alistair's fingers are digging into her breast and belly, as he too struggles to hold off madness. It _hurts_. He is _hurting _her, and she whimpers. His eyes light up at the sound, his smirk a perverted distortion of his tender smile. Riordan's response is no better, lips parted to better taste her distress.

"I am afraid this will not be pleasant, dear Sister." His hunger is palpable, eyes near black with lust and violence. "Know that this was never my intention." He hauls her up to her knees, keeping her between himself and Alistair as a shield. "Alistair and I will destroy each other to possess you."

"No! Please, I'm willing!"

Alistair speaks through gritted teeth, hands flexing on her flesh as he tries to restrain himself. "He's right. One of us will wind up dead, and you'll wind up the spoils." He shakes his head, hazy and unsure. Hands shift from her to Riordan, quite deliberately. "Go and get Morrigan." A cruelty she didn't know was in him flares up behind his eyes, lingering now on the dark Warden rogue. "If you're not here to fight over, we may be able to turn this into something less lethal."

Something in her snaps, and the anger spills out. "She is NOT kin! She is NOT Warden!" She squirms between the two men, making as much solid contact with bare skin as she is able. "You are MINE! You are both mine!" Her control is shaky, her body trembling. "You _will_ share me, even if you hurt me." A possessiveness she didn't know she was capable of, especially regarding the Witch, shoots through her, placing a hand on each of her Wardens.

The music is useless. Pretty, but useless. The key is blood. Avernus is a blood mage, of course the key is blood. Alistair is hers, her minion, bound in blood and ritual, sex and magic. He will follow her lead. Riordan is unknown, and she must bind him with ties she has severed, must wrap him up in chords and strains she no longer wields instinctively. Blood is the key.

She has been hiding. Locking herself and her power so far away that she has almost shoved them out of reach. Yes, the Archdemon no longer calls to her, but neither do the Wardens, who need her so desperately to bind their Brotherhood. Understands suddenly that Avernus' potion, no matter how practical, could easily destroy them all, if she cannot unlock her acquired power. She is the binding, the mortar, and she has been trying to be human. She is not. They are not. Knowledge sweeps through her, blinding and brutal. There is no going back. There is no happily ever after, return to life as it was.

She snarls, all the feral instinct of a Warden raging through her, her anger solid, blunt, and striking out at the men she stands between, the thrumming of her heartbeat guides her, where once the music led. She arches her back, bowing shoulders to pull the scabbing wounds open once more, so the ruby trickles snake against her skin.

Riordan watches, mesmerized. He licks his lips, leans close to inhale her, the metal bite of her blood, the warm musk of her skin, the smell of taint, the breath of kin. When he does, she bites, savage and sharp, into his shoulder, letting the copper-iron roll over her tongue, the taste of corruption fill her mouth.

"They eat each other," she whispers, licking the rotten salt flavor from the corner of her mouth. "The darkspawn, they eat each other, and they eat us." Turns her head to tear viciously into Alistair, a lighter taste, a lighter taint, still meaty metal pollution. She offers her stained mouth to Riordan, laughs as he sucks the Templar's blood from her lips, his tongue chasing between her teeth to find more. He bites her, and she bleeds for him, into him, the ebb and flow of her sliding into him as surely as the melody of taint.

There is nothing gentle about it, teeth and nails, blood and desperation. She writhes in pain as the Wardens devour her, tugging at old wounds, creating new. The hum of her blood, a music that enthralls them, unleashed in it's potency. She struggles to keep it under control, and fails, but at least they are hers, and she theirs, no longer a prize to be won.

She cries out, but it falls on deaf ears, both Riordan and Alistair hear nothing but the song of her, drowning humanity in waves of animal need. Bruising grips, ripping teeth, the burning feeling of her flesh tearing, the wet, sinewy give of skin and muscle under her nails as she shreds them in her agony. She does not tell them to stop. .

There is still a rivalry between them, growling, taunting, but they have both managed to focus their fire on her. She is far from ready when Riordan thrusts into her, nor is there anything gentle or loving about Alistair's touch, the presence of the rogue Warden driving him deep into instinctive reaction, right back where they had begun, only now, she is not drowning in him, in them, but is too human.

She screams as the Templar rams himself into her, thick and hard, rubbing against Riordan, the blood of her torn flesh easing their passage, but not enough to keep her from writhing in agony. Her teeth sink into Riordan, stifling her cries as she forces herself to be still.

oOo

Her body jolts and shudders, breath ragged, stifled mewls that are distinctly not in pleasure spill from her. Her blood sings a command he cannot ignore, demanding he possess her. Rare though female Wardens are, he has met a few, and each woman has had her own song of ownership, imprinting her presence on him. None have had the compulsion she possesses, overwhelming all his years of control, he is unable to suppress this _need_, to own, to mate, to consume, until she is gravid and helpless.

He feels the moment she gains control, the power of her blood becomes the power of her song, her _choice_ directing her fellow Wardens, no longer slave to instinct, hers or theirs. The bloody snarling mess of _need_ eases, lightens on the crystal notes of her internal symphony, sweeps the trio into a softer, if no less pulsing, pounding, passionate haze of affection and love, once more truly Brothers, rather than rivals.

The feel of the Templar's release, the spasms of the Warden's body in his grip, the taste of her blood hot on his lips, and the soaring sound of her, the pained, whimpered noises, push him over the edge.

"I'm sorry. Maker, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" As the sparks fade from his vision, her music from his ears, he hears the shattered whisper of the Templar, rocking back and forth with the Warden in his arms. She guides the music inside them, easing tension, quelling guilt, slowing heartbeats and lingering passions.

She winces when he pulls away, sighs softly when he kisses her shoulder. "That was… Not what I was hoping for." Her voice is hoarse from screaming.

"Nor I, my dear." He touches her cheek, apology in his eyes. "I believe I should fetch your healer."

"Please."


	9. Chapter 9

She stands over him, a proud man, black hair and pale face, purpled sagging skin beneath his eyes. He was handsome once, she muses, regarding him as dispassionately as she is able. Once, he was strong, a hero when Ferelden needed one. Once, he served his country and his King well. He is practical, ruthless. Whatever is necessary. Riordan is right. He would make a fine Warden, given the chance.

"You can't possibly be considering it!" The Templar sputters, his anger and hatred spilling into his voice, into the vice grip on the pommel of his sword. "He murdered the other Wardens! The King! I will not stand beside him as a Brother."

She silences him, a light brush of her fingertip to his lips, sending a swift strain trilling through his veins, until he closes his eyes, and his mouth. "Trust me, my love, he will find no honor in our ranks."

She turns back to the assembly, to Loghain, and pronounces his sentence. "I will conscript him. Riordan, prepare the Joining." The clang and clatter of Alistair's armor as he spins on his heel, walks out the door, letting it bang closed behind him. The scent of his anger hangs in the air, cloying and thick, his hurt clogging her throat.

Glaring at Eamon, she says, "Anora, the throne is yours. Gather the army. We are done here." She hurries to follow the Templar, hoping he has not made it out of the Palace yet. Hoping he will listen, will hear her.

He is sitting on the steps, legs spread, Maric's sword laying across his knees. His helm sits in the dusty street at his feet, head and shoulders bowed. When she drops onto the stone next to him, he glances up, smiles weakly, and turns back to studying the dirt.

"I didn't get very far." He stiffens under her touch, but doesn't pull away. She breathes a sigh of relief. "I was headed for the gates, but each step away from you, I could feel your music pulling at me harder." A glitter in the corner of his eye, but he rubs it away, scrubbing at his face. "I don't know if it's the potion, or just a Warden thing, but I can't walk away.

I'm furious. I'm hurt. How can you say you love me, that you loved them, when you allow that bastard the chance to join us?" His head falls into his hands, rubbing at his temples. "I need a drink."

"Alistair, I-"

"Don't. Why doesn't matter. I've always trusted you to make the right choice, but I don't think I'll ever be able to see this as right."

"It isn't right, Alistair. It's vengeance."

"How is this vengeance? Making him a Warden, making him our Brother?"

Her laugh is cruel and cold. "Warden, yes. Brother? Never."

"I…what?" He finally turns to face her fully, incredulous. "How does that even work?"

"I am so very sorry, Alistair, that you are trapped. I never wanted that. I hope you know that." She slips away, leaving him to brood, knowing she has broken something, unsure if it can be repaired.

oOo

The Witch finds him in the Market District, staking a claim to a table in the Gnawed Noble, flashing eyes and scowls driving off any would be company. When he sees her, he gestures a welcome. In public or not, when he shoves his chair away from the table, she wriggles her way onto his lap, arms going tightly around his waist as he tucks her head beneath his chin. He cinches her tighter into his arms, and she can feel the deep catches in his breath as he struggles with himself.

"Why did she do it, Morrigan?" Husk in his voice, sad, angry, slurred with alcohol. "When did she change her mind?"

"'Tis no mercy she offers him, Alistair, nor favor she does him." She snuggles close, pressing her face into his throat. "She has been pondering the best punishment, and 'twould appear she has found it. If, of course, she proves to have the stomach for it."

"It hurts."

"I know it does. 'Tis painful to feel betrayed by one you trust, by one you love."

He bows his head, hiding his face in her raven hair, and weeps, great jerking sobs that shake her entirely as she coos in his ear, the faintest trace of the Warden scent clinging to her skin, soaking in to him, she gives what comfort she is able.

When he calms, she wipes the wet from beneath his eyes with the pads of her thumbs.

"I was going to find a horse, head north, maybe. Anywhere but here. Anywhere but with her." His sigh rocks her. "It seems I can't be anywhere _but_ with her, if that is what she chooses."

"Perhaps once you see what she has in mind, your anger will lessen." The Witch cocks her head, considering. "I think even you will balk at the punishment our dearest Warden is set to inflict on the Teyrn. 'Twill be a great relief when death finally finds him."

oOo

She hisses in his ear, the cup held just beyond his reach. "Shall I tell you, _my lord_, what it is you took from me, the day you betrayed us all?" Eyes hard, touch gentle, she caresses his cheek. "Shall I tell you how it felt, and how it still feels, to have my heart ripped from my chest? How it felt to know that only Alistair and I remained, and I would never again know the sound, the touch, the scent of my Brothers? Shall I tell you how I loved them?"

He is silent, but she prefers that. "I think I would rather show you." She pulls his head back with a sharp tug, pours the blackened blood down his throat. "Remember, Loghain, that _I _did this to you."

She sits primly on the edge of the chair, watching, waiting. He survives, and is dreaming even now of Archdemon and darkspawn, the flood of music twisting through him, tying him forever to the Wardens, to the taint. To her. He is chained, her newest Warden, so that when he wakes, he will find himself unable to reach out, unable to touch.

Riordan hovers at her side, concerned and a little horrified. "This is cruel, Sister." His fingers curl to cup her shoulder, warm and heavy.

"It is." She glances at him, lets him swarm her senses, relaxes into his touch. "But no more cruel than what he did to me." A quick shake of her head. "You can't understand, Riordan. You weren't there, weren't part of the bonding. He killed part of my soul when he left them to die."

"Do you think I've never lost Brothers before? That I've never bonded to a Sister, only to lose her to death? We are Wardens. Dying, it is what we do."

"But to betrayal?"

"You are young, and passionate, I cannot fault you for that. But what you plan…it is not just Loghain who will suffer."

"I don't care."

"Already you hurt Alistair with this. It will drive the Teyrn mad. And probably you, as well. You'll never be able to turn your back on him."

"I don't intend to give him the freedom for that to make a difference."

A groan from Loghain brings their attention back to his sprawled form. Her eyes light with anticipation, lips curve in a brittle smirk. With a deep breath, she calms the call of her blood, slowing it to a gentle background pulse.

The Teyrn jerks, waking with a shout. The frantic horror dims as he takes in his surroundings, the Wardens waiting for him.

She kneels, inches from the heat of his flesh, the throb of his heartbeat. Lowers herself further until she is almost lying next to him, her lips barely touching the lobe of his ear. "Can you hear that, Loghain?" He rolls his eyes to try to see her, unable to move his body in his bindings. "Can you feel me, so close, can you taste me?"

"Yes," he groans out, the beginnings of melody tugging at his altered mind, pulling at his blood. "Why?"

She giggles, drags her fingertips teasingly along one dark braid. "Soon it won't just be a want to touch, it will truly be a need." A hot breath on his cheek. "You are a Warden now, Loghain. Everything you were is past." She lets the song begin to rise, using the tightened control of her blood to sweep a symphony over the former Teyrn, smirking maliciously as she watches his eyes darken, watches his humanity bleed away, watches the terribly familiar raw urgency surge in it's place. "Everything you are, is mine."

She presses her body against him, lips hovering over his as he twists as far as possible, seeking solid contact, needing to touch her skin. As the pulse of music dances through her veins, drawing Riordan in to sweep his hands along her shoulders, baring her skin, tickling down her spine, she croons to the bound man, "You wear my collar, my chain." With a shimmy, and Riordan's assistance, she is naked, fallen silk draping over Loghain, spilling to pool on the floor beneath her knees as Riordan hauls her up, until she is kneeling astride the Teyrn, the rogue's fingers spreading her slick sex open to the desperate creature's gaze. Loghain lies twitching and jerking against his chains, breathing deep to taste her on the air.

She watches him, as Riordan plays with her flesh, on the knife edge of control himself. She frees the Teyrn from his trousers, her hand squeezing, caressing, as he bucks up, grunting. When the last sliver of sanity slips from his eyes, and he is consumed by the hard, glittering notes that pound in her blood, she laughs, a wild and broken sound, and grinds herself against him, bumping the head of his cock against her clit, as Riordan slides into her from behind, his teeth opening her shoulder as he crashes into her, ribbons of red trickling down her breasts, dripping onto the straining man between her thighs.

The metallic scent of her blood, the musk of her arousal, combine to drive Loghain into a frenzy, struggling to break free, to touch her, to claim her. The cold, practical man is gone, lost to the rush of desire, the need of instinct. The slick slide of her cunt over his engorged flesh, the trill of her song drive the breath from his lungs in huge gasps, Riordan's weight thrusting into her shoves her hard against him, rapidly pushing him to climax. When she shudders, dragging the rogue Warden into light-filled oblivion with her, the former Regent follows, spilling his seed against her wet flesh, smearing it against his skin with each upward thrust.

Panting, she lets the music dwindle, bringing them all back to reason. Loghain's startled eyes watch her warily, though warm and content. "You took this from me, when you quit the field at Ostagar. When you left my Brothers to die." She smiles, watching the confusion flood his gaze. "This is what I am taking from you, in return."


	10. Chapter 10

She had never considered how draining it might be to keep a prisoner, on the road, with nowhere to lock him up and forget about him. The slow dwindle of his faculties, worsening every time she came near, plying him with music, twisting and knotting his instincts, toying with him. It begins to grate at her, the discordance of his song plucking against hers, until she stays as far from him as possible.

For too many nights, she has lain in her tent, hearing the muffled voices of her companions, the dry scratch of branches in the fitful wind, the harsh, bitter song of a Warden in distress. Sleep is broken and elusive, her dreams dark and tormented when she does find the Fade. Still, she cannot see past her hatred, to go to him, to end this for them all. Alistair's scent is heavily laden with a hard, sharp anger, underpinned by a sodden musk of despair. Loghain smells…feral, wild and savage, verging on a decay closer to darkspawn than Warden.

The road to Redcliffe seems to stretch endlessly before her, the tugging weight of guilt rounding her shoulders, heavier still when Alistair comes to her silently, the self loathing in his eyes a searing brand to remind her of her fault.

oOo

"Warden, perhaps you aren't thinking very clearly. The Blight has had a debilitating effect on us all, but on you, with the burden of leadership…perhaps you could use a bit of time to relax, no?"

"Maker, Zev, not you too! Don't you think I get enough from Leliana and Wynne? Alistair isn't even talking to me."

"Do you fault him for that, Warden?"

"I suppose not, no. I…you might be right. I could probably do with a good night's sleep. I…haven't slept well since the Landsmeet."

"You might speak to him, however."

oOo

"Maker damn it, Alistair, look at me!"

When he turns those hollow, empty eyes on her, she wishes she had kept her silence, the dark smudges he has gained recently glaring at her, accusing, even as the arch of his brows do, the slight twist of his sneer. He doesn't seem to understand. None of them do, but she had expected Alistair to _understand_.

"Or what? You'll turn me into _that_?" An off hand gesture toward Loghain, and his words might as well be lightening, skittering over her skin, slamming into her heart in a bolt of despair.

"Please…" Hands unsteady, eyes clenched shut, holding her breath, she touches Alistair lightly on the shoulder, drawing his vacant gaze back to her face.

"We may be…lovers? Mates? Whatever being Wardens makes us, but I'm having a hard time calling you friend right now. I'm trying, I swear I am, but what you're doing to him…I want him dead, not this. Maker, never this."

"Isn't it fitting? That he suffer as he made us suffer? That he lose what he took from us?"

"Don't get me wrong, I want him to suffer. I want to poke holes in his flesh, listen to him scream in agony, knowing that pain is the cost of his betrayal. Making him a Warden, then denying him his very nature, it's driving him so far beyond sanity…I'm not sure he even knows he's being punished, let alone what for. All he knows is madness right now."

"So if you knew that he knew, you'd be ok with it?"

"Uh, no, probably not. It's too much."

"I don't get you. I thought you wanted revenge? I thought you wanted him to hurt?"

"I did. I do. But this…Maybe it just strikes too close to home? That you can do this at all, that you have the ability, and the willingness. I guess it reminds me that I'm no more immune to it than Loghain. To us, to me, you aren't an instrument of vengeance, so much as a force of nature."

"I would never do this to you! Never."

"I'm not sure it matters. I couldn't leave. I can't leave. You didn't do that on purpose. It's just what we are. What I am. So any time you're angry at me, all you have to do is…this, and I'm stuck in hell. Like he is now. Even if all you do is decide you can't…don't want this...us. You have a choice. I don't. He doesn't."

"I- I don't know what to say."

"I would never have thought you'd spare him. Even if it is only to torment him more than death could ever do."

"This was supposed to be for you, as much as me. For Duncan. For Ranulf. For Valan. Maker, even for Cailen."

He cradles her cheek in his palm, thumb wiping uselessly at her tears. "End it, love. One way or the other, just, please, end it."

oOo

"I can't," she chokes out, dropping the dagger, hiding horrified eyes behind shaking hands. Loghain stares up at her, still, always, bound. His song beats a hideous pulse of guilt and shame, anger and desire against her skin. She is driven to offer him succor, but she refuses her instinct, able only to let go of the blade.

"I can." The nimble elf retrieves it, not bothering to wipe away the dirt. He locks stares with Alistair, whose eyes hold need, eager anticipation, a ghost of shame. Killing is easy. Even Wynne has become a killer in this war, of darkspawn, of men. Zevran's hands simply bear a darker stain than most. Forgiveness is hard. He doesn't blame the Templar for his hatred of the former Hero, for his bitterness toward the Warden. He has his own grudges, his own hatreds, so acting out the vengeance that his lovers can't…this, he can do, with no regrets.

There is no immediate reaction when the Assassin draws the blade across the Teyrn's exposed throat, not until seconds later as the crimson cascades down his skin, soaks quickly, blackly into his tunic. A sobbing gasp from the Warden, fraught with relief. A triumphant growl from Alistair, his face dark with something less than humane as he watches the life drain from the dying eyes.

The silence of their many ghosts is deafening.


	11. Chapter 11

Her spell falters under his grip, a soft wave of his will dispelling the gathered power dancing on her fingertips. His gaze is steady and lucid, thoughtful. "No, Morrigan, please." He reaches up to brush the back of his hand against her cheek. "Even if this works-"

"It will work, Alistair. I swear to you, you will both live." Pale, slender fingers catch his, twine together, press to her cheek. "After everything you two have done for me, 'tis the least I can do."

"I want to know what it is like, to be human." His confession timid, his fingers tighten in hers. He can't predict her reaction, prickly as the Witch is. She will either ridicule him, or…

Her nod is almost imperceptible, the plush line of her mouth softens, curves up so slightly. "'Tis a wonder I am your choice for that experience." A trace of uncertainty, her eyes just shy of bold.

"Oh, Maker, Morrigan! Yes, we didn't get along so well to start, but we got past that, didn't we?" He smiles widely at her, bringing his other hand up to trace the line of her jaw. "Maybe we haven't been lovers, but we've been close, more than once." He chuckles at the rueful look that flashes across her face. "I…Actually, I'm glad it's you."

"Oh?"

"Mmhmm. If I'm completely honest, I've had a bit of a thing for you since that day in the Wilds…"

"Oh." The little quirk of her lips spurs him on, the glow of affection warming him as his fingers explore her skin, aware for the first time of the softness of the Witch, unhidden by magic, her scent all her own, with nothing of the taint. He leans close, breathing her in as he skims his nose down the length of her neck, his mouth pressing wetly across her clavicle.

He smirks at the catch of her breath, as his palm slides down to cup the weight of her breast. "I've never paid _you _attention, have I? Always take, and never give." He sucks the tight peak into his mouth, lathing it with his tongue. "I think I need to fix that."

Her head tips back with a groan, clutching his arms for support as her legs quiver. "'Tis meant to be _my_ ritual, Alistair." His hands are so very warm, curving over her body, touching her in ways he never has before. "'Twould appear you are attempting to take it from me."

"Indeed, my sweet," he pauses to lick the pale skin of the under slope of her breast, "sweet Witch." He grins as he lowers to his knees before her, nudging her legs apart gently, very lightly nipping the inside of her upper thigh. Her gasp, and the way she jerks away from him, causes him to wonder if _anyone_ has bothered with making sure the beautiful raven Witch has enjoyed herself.

She scuttles back onto the bed, eyes wide, and a little wild. "Seduction is unnecessary, Alistair. I am here, and I am willing. We've only to do the deed."

A chuckle, as he crawls onto the bed after her, stalking her. He catches her slim ankle and pulls gently, dragging her back to him. "I realize this is quite different from usual, but I'm in full control here, and I'd rather like to enjoy it."

This is not going according to plan. She had _intended_ this be swift, a spelled scent to provoke his instinct, a faint strain of music to guide him to her, rather than the Warden down the hall, and done, no time for regret, recrimination, or hesitation. His lack of cooperation is unnerving. "I was under the impression you did not much like me, Alistair."

He shrugs from his place between her legs, breath playing over the quickly dampening cloth of her smalls. "Things change." She can feel the rumble of his voice in her knees, pressed tightly to his sides, the thick muscle shifting in such a _fascinating_ way. She has touched him before, but he has never noticed _her_, caught up in the drive of his blood, to slake the need of his Alpha. To have all that barely leashed strength turned on her is a little intimidating. "I've changed. Hard not to, with all we've had to do. You've changed," his teeth sink into the thin fabric covering her, tugging it away. "You are much…warmer than you used to be." Just the tip of his tongue glides the edges of her slit.

She flinches, trying again to pull away, but she is anchored by his palm pushing flat on her belly, the other hand grazing lightly up her ribs. An amused hum, and he glances up, resting his chin very lightly on the mound of her sex.

"Morrigan, has nobody ever…" At the frantic shake of her head, he mutters, "Maker, we are _all _bloody fools!" He rubs his cheek against the silky skin of her, stubble rough, causing her to squirm more. "We- _I, _had no right to use you so, darling."

She quakes when his mouth touches her again, shivers of fear and want. His tongue draws patterns in broad strokes, forcing almost silent mewls from between her lips. His touch is nothing she has ever known, so different from her own fingers, more than she imagined, hearing them across the camp, watching them rut under her spells. She is no stranger to the coiling tension, the tightening muscles, thrashing hips, but she has never been held down, drawn out, forced to endure the spiraling _need_ that he invokes in her. His tongue teases at her entrance as he lifts her leg over his shoulder, opening her wider to his intent.

She cries out, pleading, fists clenched in his hair, and he devotes himself to her incoherent demand. When her back arches off the bed, he follows, suckling at her clit as his fingers find entrance, dipping just into her convulsing core. She falls, tumbling, over the brink, blind and deaf, with only the feel of him to bring her home.

A whine under her breath as his thick fingers ease further into her, his mouth burning her hips where he plants damp, open mouthed kisses, flicking his tongue out to flay her skin. Mesmerized by the rippling muscles of his shoulders as he bends intently to his task, she reaches down to rest her hand on his upper back, feeling the tense and flex, the power of him.

"Now!" She barely manages to gasp it out, but he laughs, his entire body shaking with it. A thrill of desire, thought sated, but oh so wrong, trills through her lower body, until her toes curl.

"I'm not finished yet, sweet Witch." He meets her eyes, licking the taste of her from his lips, with an appreciative hum. "Especially since I just realized," His palm cups her, fingers delving deeper, until he taps against her maidenhood, "that you've never licked a lamp post."

"It is of no moment." She glares at him, hard to do while he strokes her _so_ well, fingers curling, caressing inside her.

"Have you ever even been kissed, Morrigan?" His question followed by a series of nibbles up her stomach, his body shifting up, his glorious fingers never ceasing. Gods, the brute strength of him, silk over steel as his skin slides against hers, there is nothing soft about him, save his eyes, his touch.

Her silence is his answer, and the flicker of pain on her face is nearly enough to make him cry. "I truly have been a royal bastard to you, haven't I, precious girl?" Her uncertainty freezes her under him, tense and still as he pulls his hand away, leaving her empty and aching. The heavy weight of him even as he holds most of it off her, the throb of him sliding along her, the beat of the pulse at his throat, he is hot, the flicker of the firelight against the sheen of sweat gleams, she feels like she is trying to swim without knowing how, trying to fight without ever having held a sword.

He whispers in her ear between nibbles, "I've neglected you terribly." A strained whimper is her reply, the head of his cock sliding easily along her cleft, wet and slick from his attentions. Her hips tilt of their own accord, trying to find friction. "But I can make up for it now, can't I, sweet Witch?" He sucks her bottom lip between his, licking lightly. "If I ask nicely? If I beg?"

He revels in the feel of her flesh beneath him, soft, hot, silent, save for mewling gasps, chirping breath and urgent moans. The flush and pulse of her blood beneath her skin, the taste of her lips, the slick of sweat, she is all human, without her spells, there is nothing of the Warden taint about her. When he breathes her in, she is uncorrupted, sharp and clean, her scent thickening with her arousal.

Her mouth sings to him, luring him in to nip and suck at her lips, warm and pliable under his own. She catches on quickly, kissing him ravenously, giving herself over to the feelings his body stirs in hers. Her nails scrape the hard flesh of his back as he grinds against her, driving her once more into spasms.

Time and again, he strokes her into a quivering mess, with hands, mouth and body, his voice a low snarl in her ear, urging her on, ever higher. She is spinning out of control, senseless to anything but the _need_, still coiled in her belly, she isn't sure what more he can give her, but she is ready for it.

"Please, Alistair." A panting whine as she comes down, grasping at his shoulders, drawing him up, catching his mouth. "Please."

He kisses her languidly, deep and slow. "Almost, darling." He watches her, darkened eyes locked on hers as she climbs again, his fingers playing with precision. As she peaks, he thrusts, swift and sharp. Her virgin blood slicks over him, and she cries out, even as she shudders in the throes of her release, and he feels her magic wash over him, her spell settling into their flesh, riding the power of her blood.

The altogether human instinct pushes them both, her forest scent with a dark metallic tang, the salt sweet taste of her skin, the lush give of her lips under his as he steals her breath, replacing it with his own. He pins her to the bed with his body, the brute force of his thrusts causing her to groan, thrashing and bucking her hips to meet him.

"Alistair…" She ripples around him, the walls of her cunt grasping and sucking him deeper. "Now." He groans in response, speeds his rhythm, her magic wind through him, sparking through his flesh to settle in his cock, spilling from his body into hers with his release.

Slowing, stilling, he nuzzles into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. With her legs still tight around him, he finds in her humanity, the songless comfort of replete flesh, lust sated by an instinct remarkably different from all he has known. He sighs, content, shifts to free her limbs, but pulls her close, her naked skin flush against his as he cuddles her.

She shudders in his arms, minute flashes of chill as his seed moves in her, seeking her womb, the spell seeking completion. They both feel the flare of magic when it happens, and he gazes at her, awestruck. She is the mother of his child, still untouched by the soul of the Archdemon, still only human.

Their kiss is long and lingering, bittersweet with potential and knowledge.


	12. Chapter 12

This is a super, disgustingly short chapter. This also concludes Brother Mine, which follows the events of the Blight.

Thank you all for reading! I am currently working on the Awakenings component, which will simply be the next chapter or 3 here, depending on how long it gets.

* * *

Tomorrow, everything changes.

She watches her lover, her Brother, her mate, and he is wrapped around the finger of another woman, a Witch who bears his child, as she never can. Another thing the taint has taken from her, alongside her humanity, her morality. She holds her silence, watching the playful give and take between two that she loves so well.

Once, it could have been her, whose belly the Templar stroked so reverently, his eyes alight with a spark she has never seen in them before. No sign of a bump, but they both insisted they knew it was there, had both felt the magic laced instant of conception.

The change in Morrigan was astonishing, her brittle temper all but gone, her patience with Alistair a miracle. Only in the darkest moments of night did she let the shadows grace her eyes, let the guilt pass her lips.

"We do not speak of the future, he and I. He knows I will leave, but I cannot bring myself to remind him." Her glance over the small fire was sad, resigned in a way the Warden had never seen Morrigan before. "Is it more cruel to allow him the illusion of a child of his own, or to take that hope away, once he has felt it?"

There is sympathy, to be sure, somewhere deep in the morass of less than savory feelings. Sympathy for Morrigan, for Alistair, for their rather unique situation. The Witch is her sister, in every way but blood, so the Warden is less than ready to throw spite at her, but Maker, she wants to scream! Possibly claw up her pretty face a little, see if Alistair still fawns over her then!

So all she does is shrug, choking as she swallows the nasty words that want to spill like bile between them. Morrigan has given him so much that she never can, not just a child, but the experience of love, even if it turns out to be only a puppy love, that is untainted, unquestioned.

oOo

She can't count the number of fragments of herself, the icy blazing rush, overwhelming crescendo as the tainted soul of a God brushes against hers, the tightening bands of possession and wicked tendrils threading into the cracks, poised to tear her apart from the inside, to expel her from herself. Talons of corruption sink into her mind, her defenses faltering, her blood-borne shield shattered under the sheer weight of the Archdemon's song.

She staggers, the music crashing into her as a thing physical, a wall of sound inside her head that drags her to her knees, until a sweeter call, a warmer vessel, potential and power, cocooned in blood, taint and magic catches the God's attention.

Color falls away, followed by light, until only the darkness remains, only the stuttering beat of Alistair's heart to remind her she is Warden. She is alive.

Even that fades into shadow.

oOo

"You'll need to go after her, you know."

"But you promised you wouldn't chase her."

"And I won't. You will."

"I…thank you."


	13. My Brother's Keeper  Ch 1

And so begins the Awakening arc. I had imagined doing it in one fell swoop, but you know what they say about swooping...

* * *

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that can not be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day we shall join you." She watches, eyes tight, jaw clenched, as Mhari falls, drowning in her own vomit. As Oghren shrugs off the effects of the Chalice. As Anders collapses, boneless but still breathing.

They are not her first. They will not be her last. When their songs begin to rise, faint and timid, suffusing her with _family_, with _kinship_, at last the void begins to fill, as the floating notes reach out to add themselves to Alistair, of whose distant, distant song she hears only echoes.

-oOo-

"Do you hear the whispers? He promises home. Acceptance, family." The Warden Commander trails a fingertip along the tender tip of Velanna's ear, drawing a slight shiver from the elf. "He offers everything I do." Her eyes are clouded with memory. "He offers it to me."

The groggy mage rubs her eyes, trying to ease the pounding in her head. "Why didn't you mention this?" Gravel voiced, she feels like she is choking on sand.

A careless shrug. "Warden secret."

"Is there anything else that I should know, now that I am one?" She can still taste the bitter tang of the sludge, coating her tongue like rotten fur.

"Probably." The woman sitting beside her is hard, muscles carved from stone, soul wrested from iron. She offers nothing in the ice of her eyes. Velanna shivers again as the Commander pulls away her hand, and the elf finds herself scooting closer, until her arm just brushes the other woman's leg. With the touch, she feels the slow melody sink into her bones, wrapping around her in comfort and warmth, blocking out the itching whispers on thready chords.

"I did not realize that he would call to you so. I had thought that threat finished with the fall of the Archdemon. It seems there are yet things we Wardens do not know or understand about ourselves." The Commander idly reaches out to stroke the Mage's hair, and Velanna wants to flinch from her touch, but finds herself leaning into it instead, nearly purring. A small part of her protests, crying out that she is not a pet, not a child! But most of her ignores it, caught up in the feel of homecoming.

Tapping her fingertip thoughtfully against her lips, the Warden Commander murmurs, "We've such a strong compliment of males who survived, and this call, it is not so strong, and I had only the one to keep me." Her eyes light up, and she turns sharply to Velanna. "There is a further ritual that needs to be done. I'd thought to put it off, I thought it was only necessary during a Blight, but the darkspawn are still strongly present on the surface, so…necessity, my dear."

The elf huffs, exasperated. "You aren't making any sense. _What_ needs doing? Am I not a Warden now?"

"Oh, you are, certainly. But until we finish the Joining, you're really only a Broodmother waiting to happen." Amusement and apology mingle on her face, and her hand shifts to cup Velanna's cheek. "We need to bond you to us, the same way I was bonded in my Joining."

"Another Warden secret?"

"Of course. This one, however, is so secret that most Wardens don't even know about it, until they take part in it." A slight smirk. "It can be a bit of a shock."

A tinge of apprehension begins to grow, and the distant look on the Commander's face is no help. But there is something coiling in the pit of her stomach, a sense of emptiness, a need for…something. _I am hungry_. "Commander, may I seek out the kitchens? I need to eat something, and I doubt the shem cooks will make anything palatable."

A dismissive wave of her hand, "Don't worry about it. Nathanial will be bringing you something shortly, and I've instructed him to prepare it to Dalish standards. I spent a bit of time with another tribe down south during the Blight, so hopefully, it will suit."

A mix of relief and annoyance, since she doesn't really want to not be touching the Commander, doesn't want to let the scritch scratchy voice get inside her head, but she is unused to relying on anyone for…much of anything. She shifts closer to the Warden, until she can wrap her arm around the woman's calf, pressing bare skin close.

"Do you hear it too?"

"Yes."

"How do you just…ignore it?"

"I am tainted differently than you. Different from the others." That same careless shrug. "I didn't have the strength to deny the Archdemon, after my Brothers died at Ostagar. So I had to change my blood, my taint." Her smile is slight and bitter. "I am more than a Warden, I suppose. I've trusted you enough to make you my Sister, so I will trust you with this." Another soft caress on Velanna's ear tip. "Weisshaupt can never know."

"All Ferelden owes a great deal to the Dryden family. Only the lifelong quest to clear their name brought my attention to Soldier's Peak, and the blood mage who still lives there. His experiments are the only thing that allowed me to deny my nature, deny myself."

Thoughtlessly, strong, slender fingers slide into the pale golden silk of Velanna's hair, twisting and knotting, then smoothing. Gentle tugs to free the knots she creates, voice pitched low and dark with memories it seems she would rather not own.

"I don't know if Alistair would have had so much trouble, had the new recruit been a man, rather than myself."


End file.
